


Better than Blood

by zeldadestry



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-19
Updated: 2004-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:00:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you remember your life, before I made you mine?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better than Blood

**Author's Note:**

> written for Thamiris's 'Blow it with Feeling' challenge. The emotion is mercy. 4/12/07 RIP, Thamiris. She will be remembered and missed. Much love. 'Life is short, but art is long.'

He is holding her, and he is losing his fucking mind, just throwing it out on the trash heap with everything else. It keeps coming back to him, the memory of a time when her madness had parted like a veil. She always seemed more vulnerable, in her rare lucid moments, then during all her ravings and hysterical tantrums. He could remember feeling her sidle up beside him, slip her hand in his own, and lean against him, saying, with a sighing tone, "Sweet William. Tell me what you want." He remembered leading her over to a red leather chair, placed in front of a fire, burning low behind the grate. He made her sit down, in his lap, and he ran his hands over and over her thick hair, the pale planes of her face. She must have seen some doubt in him, for she whispered, cooed, "I love you as you love me." In that moment, he believed it. He undressed himself, as she watched, sitting back on her heels with a satisfied smile. She could kill him, the way she leaned over him, still dressed in her thick black velvets, rubbing up against him. She kissed him, wetly and thoroughly, before bending down to his feet, and starting there. She could spend an hour making her way up to his cock, kissing and licking and biting the arch of his foot, his ankle, his calves, the back of his knees. She went slower as she moved closer to his prick, her hands clutching his thighs, hard, digging into them with her nails, drawing blood, which she lapped up. Keeping his thighs spread wide in her grip, her tongue flicked over and over the tendon that ran from his crotch down his inner thigh. At the first touch of her lips to his cock, a soft kiss, he opened his eyes, kept them open, watching her,though it slightly dulled his awareness of physical pleasure. It was worth watching, for the feeling that followed. It made him feel, well, fuck, even now he hated to admit it, because it felt so weak, but it had made him happy. Happy, and overwhelmed, and grateful, to see her lips wrapped around him. See her cheeks hollowing around him, when she pulled off his prick. See the pink tip of her tongue, as it slipped from her mouth, and flicked at his slit, sending the best kind of shock through him. And then his eyes fell shut again, his head lolled against the back of the chair, but he kept a hand in her hair, took deeper and deeper breaths of her scent. Felt more and more blood filling his cock as he listened to her little slurping noises, the murmur in the back of her throat as she clung around him. Heard the rustling of the taffeta layers under her skirts, and then the wonderfully sloppy sound of her dipping her fingers into her wet cunt. She pulled her mouth away from him, and he groaned, exasperated, but then she was pressing against him, pushing her fingers into his mouth, and the incredible taste and slick sticky feel of her juice, rolling it around his mouth with his tongue, was better than blood.

He hears her whimper, and the pleasure of the memory dissolves. He's clutching her, hurting her, though he doesn't mean to. He's going to break her if he's not careful enough, gentle enough. He runs a hand down her back, and can feel every hard knob of her spine. All her bones seem ready to split through the skin that covers them. Her skin had always been so dry, almost powdery, but now it is damp. He can no longer feel the tension of strong flesh when he touches her. It is an overused metaphor, but he'd been a shit poet, anyway, so it was all right to say that the fruit had rotted. Her skin slides beneath his fingers, like touching an over-ripe peach. Feels like the skin is going to slide right off her flesh. He can't help shuddering, once, but he composes himself, and pets her scalp. She has torn out most of her hair, but what is left is as fine as ever, and he knows, touching her, that he will never feel this reverent again. "It hurts," Dru says. Her voice is low. "It doesn't stop." Holding her, destroyed like this, the nausea is the closest thing he's felt to human in a century. The pain makes him feel like he's disappearing. No more Spike, no more William, no persona, no personality, no history, all floated away. Only this pain, and beyond it, nothing else. He is lost, despairing. The feeling becomes too much to bear, he turns from it, and rages, because the anger is easier. Fuck her, anyway! Why should he care? She left him, and ruined him, and made a fool of him. What did he give a shit about her for anyway? So, now she was hurting, just as he had hurt, and it was all working out fine, then. Eye for a fucking eye, bitch. How do you like your karma, your payback? He wants to leave her. No, no! He's never going to leave her. She's fucking his. She belongs to him. He's hers. She's his. There's no other way. He won't let her go. He can't. He can't.

He feels Dru's hand clutch his, hears her murmur something to him, in a soft, worried voice. She's trying to comfort him, he realizes. As she lies here, in so much pain, she can't even move, she's reaching to him. Suddenly, a whole vista in his mind that he has been shutting the door to for years, opens. Tenderness, comfort, love, everything he had trembled and cried to express as a human. This was what he had fucking died for in that alley, with her. This dream, William's dream, his dream, to not only see what was illuminated, effulgent, but to be able to share it, and in sharing it, belong, be merged, no longer alone, no longer wanting. Whole. Everything he felt he could have, in that one moment, more than a hundred years ago, when his eyes had locked with hers, just a glance of time, before her mouth latched upon his neck and drained him. He wants, once more, what he wanted then, to give to her, to this woman who wanted what he offered. "I'm so sorry, love," he says, " I'll do anything for you, anything."

"I'm very tired, dear Spike. I want to sleep till there are no more tomorrows." He kisses each of her wrists. "Do you remember your life, before I made you mine?"

"Yes."

"Do you miss it?"

"Not when I have you."

"My mama used to walk me to church, in the sun, holding my hand. There were blue flowers by the side of the path. I would pick them." Her thumbs trace over his cheekbones, and he opens his eyes, to find her staring straight into them. "I want to feel the sun, again, Spike. That's all I want." Her voice is weak, childish, but her eyes show her resolve.

He tries to keep the tremor from his voice. "And then there will be no more pain."

She smiles. "You understand."

"I understand."

"And you will miss me, very much, won't you?"

"Yes, always." He kisses her, and though her lips move only slightly beneath his, her arms press him tightly against her.

She releases him, with a sigh. "I'm ready now," she says.

He lets her words, her voice, sink into him. He takes a deep breath, renews in his bones, his bowels, his blood, the smell of her hair, the soft press of her body against his, the way she rests her head on his shoulder and tucks her face into his neck. He is not ready, no amount of time could make him ready. She needs him, though, she is waiting. So he says, "Yes," and lifts her into his arms for the last time.


End file.
